In every seed

In every little thing, comes another of great wonder and splendor. In every little creature starts a new life, a beginning of a new, dawning era of hopes and dreams.

It was a fine, warm day. The birds were singing haughtily on top of dead tree stumps posing as wire supports. I pity these birds for they know not the beauty of the green leaves that once sprung in that human-beleaguered tree.

It was long ago when men value the works of nature with resounding respect, treating it as if it was something human; no that was an understatement because as a matter of fact, it was revered to as more than human. There were myths written to them and for them, stating that every inch of their thick, wrinkled trunk shows imbued knowledge fortified by eons of existence, making it a more formidable and a highly impassable creation of God.

But the boastful Ruler-of-All started questioning every bit of authority the trees has commanded. He started to strip away the qualities that make the trees whole and admirable. He ruined its blossoms, which prevents its fruits from sprouting and cut its powerful torso to state his dominance on all living things. He took more than he could carry and bitten off more than he could feed himself. Nature, again, have been the unwary target of man’s vicious entities, primarily, the manifestation of greed, lust and gluttony. For times so many, man has desecrated the sanctity of Nature, the very one whom he calls home and mother.

But though man has that oblique supremacy to devour anything on its straightforward and commonly erring paths, man also has that uncanny capability to restore what he has consumed. It is a God given gift to us that we should do in order to keep the balance of our Mother Nature.

Last Saturday, we were assigned for a project. It was quite boring when we assumed that position first. We were tasked a tree-planting activity and we were not very anxious about this. Oh come on! With all the work on our tireless, computing hands! But then again, something on the back of our heads told us that it is a part of the social responsibility we must do. It was actually more than just any other social-programs because it was for the benefit of all; humans, animals, and plants alike.

We started planting trees and not only did the bonding moments tasted sweeter than ever, without all those scholastic hindrances cracking our heads like crows on pumpkins, but also because of the free time I got to think. It made me see clear and past the mundane world of urban mediocrity. These trees, these little, God-graced trees, they will eventually grow up. With proper care and continuous maintenance they will soon be reaching for the sky with their outstretched branches. Sooner or later, they will be taller than humans and they will fruit vigorously, showering those near them with sweet delicacies intended for their liking.

Then, an icicle of cold and hard imagination dawned on me, like something that was familiar, yet seemingly elusive due to work overload. With a thunderclap inside my head, I realized that it was a graceful formation of thoughts. Similes and metaphors were racing inside and there was no stopping for the red light had suddenly gone out of order.

These trees, they are like us. We were just too arrogant to admit but they are like us. They live, they eat, they grow up and yes, eventually they die. But death is not at all important. It is what you do when you were still alive that matters. It starts from a seed. Our country must start changing at its seeds: individuals must change for the development of this institution. It grows strong with maintenance and grooming. Of course, even if the individuals are willing to change, there must be something that would maintain such willingness and order; a body to govern. A termite should be squished immediately because it will grow and outnumber the trees’ defenses, causing its immediate death from the hands of unworthiness, its dreams cast into the abyss of oblivion. With proper nourishment it will reach out a hand to the heavens, as if longing for it to rain down exceedingly on its parched entirety. When everyone thinks not for his own sake but for the good of others, we will soar higher than this and everything will be just like a wait for rain to wash away the heat of the sun.

It is a project yes. A tree-planting project imposed on us as a requirement. But all understands that it is of such importance. As the day progresses and as the sun’s mighty rays shift its gaze to other lands, I look into the things I’ve done with much appreciation and pride. I have helped our nature. I have helped the country in my own little way. True, as of this moment, my means of help might be labeled as insignificant, but that is nothing compared to the satisfaction it has given me. And as the minutes inched slowly on my wristwatch, I know that in this way and like this tree, every big thing, every great award, and every magnanimous victory must start with every little baby steps. Like this tree, it must start with budding first its first petals, leaves and acorns. It must get proper nutrition for it to grow and be mature enough to withstand storms that are inevitable on its way to the top. I strongly believe that if humans would just stop bickering at one another and accept their frailty once and for all, then it will all be fine. I guess we could learn a lesson from the trees from time to time. That even though they are as silent as the graves, they work inside and try to make a change

Pressed like boiling water

It is not a surprise anyway that Filipinos are getting less attention than those chaps from other countries. What with all the media’s racket to boost their audience share ratings, importing feisty, dreamy shows, it is no wonder Filipinos stand confused, torn between nationalism and mediocre popularity. We of course tend to follow what is pressing us on all sides, and that is the call to popularity. We imitate what we see on television and envision ourselves in their lives. Call it a lie, but many Filipinos especially the confused teens follow this Asian trend, thinking that it is their duty as Asians in blood to follow the fad. But it is neither the Asian spirit nor the popularity that matters in this issue. It is nationalism. What about our own culture? Shouldn’t we enrich it too? Shouldn’t we, like Koreans and Japanese produce our own themes and sets of young individuals to be idolized by our own children? And by saying this, I’m not referring to any kinds of imitations or what the media would like to coin as “Pinoy versions”. Honestly, we have so many of that right now and we don’t need another. We have our Pinoy version of Mariah Carey, F4, Whitney Houston, and a whole lot more of fakes, designed to be a close-at-hand counterpart of the real thing. That is not what our youth needs.
We need our own artists to improve their acting. Enough about the cry-‘til-your-eyes-dry acting. It is a thing of the past. We need more intelligent writers to bury the clichés of heavy lines and “sampalan” scenes on movies. We need creative movie directors, those who know better than just publicity and how to raise a star like a hog raiser. The Philippines is full of creative people. The only problem is that those in the industry lifts only those with names attached already on their golden-clad necks.

The media is designed for many things, mainly to disseminate information to the masses. We should use it wisely and build people, not destroy them to oblivion. We’ve had pregnancy issues, abortion news, sex scandals, and him-being-gay releases a lot, we don’t need them anymore. Sure many, especially those who lack intellect, would consider this as a newsworthy matter, thriving in topics that are none of their concern, but there are also those who think and deserve better news and entertainment. If the media were just used properly, then all would be well informed, without fear of defamation.

The Philippines from the eyes of the filthy rich

When you go to Makati, Ayala in particular, or in Alabang’s famous Filinvest, you’ll begin to wonder if you’re suddenly transported to another country. Everywhere you look is scenery worth a thousand flattering words. No flaws, no dirty street canals, no vandalisms and “bawal umihi dito”, no litters and pesky MMDA’s (for political or logical reasons, I cannot say) to impede your stroll on the greener pastures of urban life. The surroundings are well kept and streetlights are not shattered. Buildings as tall as the sky abound and the floors are as shiny as mirrors. Who wouldn’t wonder? This is the crib of the rich and the famous…the filthy rich.

Chief Executive Officers of giant corporations, General Managers of multinational companies, talents of big networks, these are just some who enjoy the daily pampering of the city of Makati. With A-class restaurants and 5 star hotels on e every corner, it’s not so surprising that it also homes foreigners from all parts of the globe.

But isn’t it bothering that these invaders enjoy the better qualities of living in the country than most Filipinos do? Because let’s face it, how many average Filipinos go to this place? Maybe, occasionally, to stroll or for business purposes, but how many Pinoys actually live in this place? Very few, one might say. For when compared with those who dwell there with foreign blood, it glares in our eyes that we are overpowered and outnumbered in our own country. Our own country seems to home better other people from foreign races than nurture its own inhabitants. True enough, it is just business as usual for them, since these are the people who can pay, but shouldn’t the government be doing something about this? Or are its hands too full of blood to notice a tiny speck of muck on its face?

Feminism: as time goes by

There was once a time when females crave for equality from males. It is not a secret that this world is male dominated. According to a good professor of mine, even language itself is gender biased. There are more insulting terms for women than for men, and even if there is, it just increases their distasteful liking for gross ideas. Words like jock, stud and player only increases their ego and manhood while terms like whore, bitch and slut demean women of their right as human beings and builds an idea that women are only sex toys for men. Even the word human has a “man” word in it. Does that mean women are less than human?

Woman. The word itself sets the premise that this creature is dependent on a “man”. You do not exist unless you are loved. You do not know anything unless you are touched. You cannot react to anything because you are a woman. No rights. No privileges. Just burdens.

I can still recall the story of the witch-hunt. Women back then were persecuted simply because they are precariously sensuous, undoubtedly irresistible and deviously enchanting. They were associated with the devil, the church saying that they are little whores of Satan. They were killed with the most vicious intent, hanging upside down from a wooden plank, crucified, garroted, beheaded, speared, stoned, or probably the most common punishment; burning them to the stake. Logical explanation: because they are women and Satan is presumed to be a lustful male demonic entity, (probably because the church wants to impress that Satan is a powerful creature. Note that male means power.) He’s accomplices and object for desire would be women. Witches. Poor females who didn’t know anything until the tongues of flame licked their soft bodies down to ashes.

Maybe the church has had it through with the witch-hunt, declaring that it was finally over on that glorious year of chastity and peace. It probably thought that as a peace offering for women, they glorified Mary as the Mother of God and venerated her with highest esteem, and added the word Mother to church. But for me, it is a ruthless mockery, callously masking their past “mistakes” full of innocent, crimson blood of screaming witches. Just because they were women…

It is history anyway. His story; always his and not hers. That’s why women from centuries were not very much heard. Has anyone thought the witch-hunt era of the church evil after it has expressed its gravest apologies? No, because it is history. Not hers that matter.

Throughout history women were strenuously misrepresented. Whenever men were written by scribes on a roll of parchment with a quill, they always emerge from the battle, careworn, seriously damaged, courageously severed, but heroic nevertheless. They always save the day, come what may and against all odds. How about women? There is Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt. And why is she famous? It is because she hooked up with Mark Anthony to rebuke the Pharaoh. There is Helen, the face who launched a thousand ships and she’s only famous because she’s beautiful. Then there is Princess Diana, the alleged infidel wife of Prince Charles who became famous because she cared for the sick and the poor, then that horrible car crash which made her an instant saint. There is Minnie Mouse, and she’s only famous because she’s the love interest of Mickey.

Women throughout history are always dependent on men. They are always by his side, under his rule, beneath his reasoning, consumed by his wild fantasies and imaginations. That’s why it is his story.

As time progresses, women sought for independence against their unrelenting iron cage. They fought for freedom and struck like a lightning bolt, shocking everyone, men and other women alike, that they also have the capacity to think, the right to live an un-tortured, meaningful life, and not just a child bearer for the grunting pigs called men. But did they succeed? I can still see the likes of Cleopatra, bitching around in high stilettos, wearing excessive, mind-boggling colors and phrasing the word “that’s hot!” to be their own. I can still see Helen, who indeed is a born charmer, but cannot syllabicate the word “intelligence”, let alone spell it. There is still Princess Diana, who is a seemingly perfect woman with those powers and all, but mistreated and humiliated by her own husband. And there is still Minnie Mouse, who’s only famous because her dictator husband bought her thousands of shoes.

Isn’t the need for equality the claim of women throughout history? Haven’t they sought freedom from the cruel words of men? Their guises to score to a woman? From mediocre stupidity? From his clutches of neck binding brutality? As his reward and well-earned glory?

It is his story again. And everything women do is history.

My Dirty Black Shirt

There was no one in the room except for the shadows lurking in the far corner. It was quietly moving, as if taunting me, longing to strike. I don’t dare vanquish it for I know its burdens. I have been suppressing it for the better good. Still, it managed to escape from my decrepit solitude, and caught me off guard. But I didn’t care. Try as it might, it is just a figment of my deranged imagination, a hallucination so distorted; I sometimes forget to live my reality.

People. They expect me to be great, to be brave, to be useful and to do extraordinary stuff because they once saw me doing those kind of things. But I’m no different from those street rogues begging for mercy and a little respect. I crave for attention just like what usual people do. The only difference is that I don’t know how to act when attention finally stares me in the face. I tend to discard them most of the time. I hate those people who love me, and I, though unaware as I always am, love those who don’t love me back. Perhaps I take those who adore me for granted. Maybe I think that they will always be there as my fall back plan, if once again, for times so many, I’m turned down by the people who catches my gaze. When will I stop dreaming that these people won’t be there for me forever? I should stop now.

I don’t talk much. Silly but I really don’t, especially if it’s about myself. I do believe that the world has more pressing problems than listen to an old child’s whining. But these past few days, I’m drowned in a dilemma, torn between my wants and the things I must do. I disparagingly took down the rest of myself with a final contemptuous look in the mirror. Surely I don’t brag too much? Or do I? Surely, I don’t think high of myself, or at least higher than the others? Or do I? Some credit for my great, brave and honest acts. I’d rather be drowned in my own despair than suffer from being an airhead.

The shadows stirred, heavily swaying in the air cast by my fan. Longing for its fingers, cold and tight around my neck, I took a moment of rest. It did not come. Maybe Death wants me to finish this first before it reaps me. An unfinished business might cause him troubles. (That was meant as a joke. Please laugh.)

I don’t wear black anymore. When I was younger, my playmate told me that black is an evil color. True enough, in every TV shows I watched, black is the color of the enemy. When I entered high school, my friends and my foes looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I wore black every now and then, when we were not in uniform or every time we went out. But I was accepted fully by my friends, though copy my lifestyle was a trip to the moon for them. And that’s one of the things I miss in high school. The variety of friends I used to have, without them contemplating much on how we look with each other’s lucidity. We were after the company and not the brand names or image we wish to portray. It’s tasty, and sweet, but like all good things in life, it did end.

Today, I am forgetting my dark belongings, thinking that they belonged to my past, full of immaturity and restless teenage wheezing. I tried to get out of my shackles, the chains that bound me to my black, broken heart once again, and as I did, I know that all of it should start from every little, baby steps. I kept my dark metals away, tucked neatly in my chest, a remainder of a must-be-forgotten past. My anger, my world, my once forgotten soul, locked securely, never to be commemorated again. The death of my childhood brought more sorrow than the world’s bearings. But like all the good things in life, it must end.

Three years has passed since the day I cursed my wretched life and I never regret what I did. Seeing that my kind is slowly being tormented by the advent of pop followers, who dress in black, uses my chains to symbolize their emotions and use the phrase of their favorite sub genre to justify their self-expression. They are a hell lot different than me. People just confuse it, for these creatures ruined our essence, our recluse, our shelter. My kind does not succumb to their sentiments that easily. We do not hate the world or humanity, in a manner of speaking. Just their vicious lies and violence they toss at one another. But this new breed, these teens and their generation, that is their way of discovery. I have mine. And like all the bad things in life, this will end.

Wondering deeply about my sorrowful repentance, I seek again my life, as I once knew it before. Believing only in myself, trusting no one but me and listening to my own private and silent debates. I miss it a lot. But the time has come for me to grow. And I guess, the dirty black shirt that hung on my cabinet, the one I disappointedly mistook for the infamous effigy of Death, beckoning me to its heartless gaze, will have to remain untouched and unused for tomorrow’s appointment. I have to start a good life. Yet a teeny voice mocks from the side of my ear, giving my dirty black shirt a grotesque, twisted face of a boy I once knew, saying that all good things, will eventually, gradually, ultimately, end.